


In the Dark No One Hides but Me

by poselikeateam



Series: Higher Vampire Jaskier AUs [9]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Aphrodisiacs, Blood Drinking, Blood Kink, Blood and Violence, Character Turned Into Vampire, Creature Jaskier | Dandelion, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Apologizes, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Idiots in Love, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Insecure Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Miscommunication, Monster of the Week, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Near Death Experiences, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Vampire Bites, Vampire Jaskier | Dandelion, Vampire Sex, Vampires, Voice Kink, Vomiting, Witcher Contracts, they share one brain cell and Roach is holding onto it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:41:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24863218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poselikeateam/pseuds/poselikeateam
Summary: When Geralt finally learns Jaskier’s secret, nothing changes, except everything does. Worst of all, they need to learn to communicate.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Higher Vampire Jaskier AUs [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1754371
Comments: 103
Kudos: 913
Collections: The Witcher Alternate Universes





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from _Blood Infections_ by Frank Iero. This was a lot of fun to write and was supposed to be maybe 4k words, but that didn’t really work out like I’d planned so here’s several chapters.

At this point, Geralt would have to be a fool to think that his bard was human. Humans get older, slow down far too quickly, turn wrinkly and grey in the blink of an eye. He had tried pushing Jaskier away at first, of course, because of all the ways that it could go wrong if he allowed himself to become attached. He would let Jaskier down, or drive him away, or fail him — be the cause of his death, somehow, or simply watch him wither and fade away into bones and dust and memories. Blaviken hadn't been that long ago, at the time, not to him, and he just... he wasn't ready. 

Ironically, if not for Jaskier, he would probably never have _been_ ready. He never would have allowed himself to get attached to another person again, would never have stayed or let anyone else stay. And, for his part, he had tried to keep Jaskier away, keep him from staying only to leave when it would hurt the most. The bard just... well, he never listened. 

Of course, just when he'd finally decided to stop trying to push him away, Geralt had finally succeeded. Harsh words he didn't mean, blaming Jaskier for a pain he didn't cause, all because he was too afraid of losing him. In the moment he thought that since everyone he cares about leaves, it would be better if it were on his own terms. Even then, a part of him had simply believed that Jaskier would brush it off like he always did when Geralt pushed, when he threw anger and vitriol that was never deserved in the younger man's face.

It hadn't taken much time alone to realise how spectacularly he'd fucked up. He started to think about how long they'd been together, how much time that was for a human. Jaskier had spent more time in Geralt's company than not, at that point — after all, they'd met when he was a lad of eighteen, and they'd been traveling together on and off for twenty two years.

Fuck. Twenty two years. That would make him forty years old.

For Geralt, twenty two years, or forty years — it's nothing. A human, though? How long did they live? Sixty? Eighty? Sometimes to their nineties, rarely, and Jaskier looked young for his age, but... He was only human. His life was half over already. 

And all of the time they'd spent together, Geralt had treated him like shit. He spent so long trying to drive him away, and hadn't stopped when it wasn't working because he just didn't know _how_ anymore. Jaskier did so fucking much for him — he cleaned and dressed and stitched his wounds, improved his reputation, argued with people who wanted to cheat him, washed his hair, took _care_ of him. What had Geralt done? 

Made a fucking mess of things.

Jaskier didn't deserve that, didn't deserve him, but he _did_ deserve an apology at the very least. He deserved to know that he wasn't the cause of all the witcher's problems, far from it — he was the only good thing Geralt had going for him, and Geralt knew that he fucked that up, but he needed Jaskier to know how important he was. He needed him to know how much he _meant_. And he didn't expect to be forgiven, he just... he just needed him to know.

So, when they finally caught up again (at random, of course, because how else do these things go?) in an Aedernian tavern, Geralt said exactly that.

And Jaskier had gaped at him for a tense moment, and then asked, "What was the name of the town we met in, Geralt?"

And Geralt had answered, "Posada?" It wasn't meant to be a question, but he couldn't keep the confusion out of his voice.

"Hmm. And my middle name?"

"You've never told me."

Jaskier breathed a sigh of relief, and at Geralt's look of bewilderment, simply said, "Thought you might be a doppler."

It caused Geralt to feel a lot of things. Proud of the bard, for being cautious and knowledgeable; thankful that he was _safe_ , that he wasn't taking chances; and furious and disappointed with himself, for causing Jaskier to think that the only reason he'd ever get an apology from the witcher would be if it were something else impersonating him.

Even though Jaskier agreed to travel with him again, said he had forgiven him, their dynamic was different. Geralt admitted that he had no clue _how_ to be nice anymore, but Jaskier deserved it. Jaskier was a lot less... warm, affectionate. He was distant. Eventually, though, they fell into a kind of working relationship that worked well for the both of them. Geralt still insulted Jaskier, but he knew how to make it sound like the joke it was meant to be. He offered praises when Jaskier did something well and thanks when he did something kind. He took note of the bard's needs, bought him oils and inks and parchment when he was running low, a new travel cloak, a dagger. They sparred, on and off, until Geralt was sure that Jaskier was proficient enough to be safe. If he could just ensure Jaskier's safety, after all, he wouldn't have to worry about having the bard at his side.

It was both a surprise and a relief when he found out that Jaskier was already somewhat proficient with a dagger — not as much as Geralt, of course, but more than the average person. 

He offered kindness and encouragement and friendship, the things that Jaskier had always freely given him and never gotten in return. Jaskier, as a result, warmed back up to him, only this time it was mutually beneficial. It wasn't a one-sided relationship anymore; Geralt had earned Jaskier's companionship, and he wouldn't do anything to lose it.

Of course, paying more attention to Jaskier, as well as the aforementioned realisation of his age and presumed mortality, caused him to notice something else. As more decades passed, and Jaskier entered his fifties and then his sixties, he still looked the same. Oh, he'd change his style, his clothes; grow his hair out and cut it again, play around with a goatee every now and then — but after a certain point, he never _aged_. Even now, when the bard is nearly seventy years old, he looks no older than he had when they'd met up again for the first time after that fiasco on the mountain. 

Geralt's medallion has never reacted to Jaskier, so he knows it isn't magic. He assumes Jaskier is part elf, and simply doesn't want to bring it up. Or maybe it was a result of something Yennefer did — he knows they're friends, now. It wouldn't be a stretch to assume she'd simply decided one day to keep him around. And he knows that if he really wanted to, he could just ask Jaskier or Yennefer, but honestly, it isn't really any of his business why the bard doesn't age. It doesn't actually matter, anyway — what matters is that Jaskier isn't going anywhere, that there isn't some arbitrary time limit on their companionship.

Jaskier has survival skills, isn't aging, and can reasonably defend himself. Geralt doesn't need to worry about him, not like he did before. (He'll always worry about him, of course — the bard may be an old man now by human standards, but he still acts like a child, makes terrible decisions, and often doesn't know when to shut the fuck up.) 

So, he isn't prepared for this.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter with the emetophobia warning

The town they're in has a werewolf problem. Nobody seems to know who the werewolf is, or even if it's one of them, but everyone is on edge. No one feels safe anymore, and no one knows who to trust. As a result, they'd hired a witcher — specifically, him. For the past few days, he has been searching for clues, tracks, anything. He asks questions around town all day, hunts all night, and sleeps during the fleeting hours in between. So far, he hasn't found anything, but he sure as shit isn't giving up yet.

He comes back to their room at the inn around the time where 'late at night' and 'early morning' intertwine, expecting to find either an empty room or a sleeping bard. As he gets close to the door, however, he hears the sound of vomiting (one of his least favourite sounds), of violent retching and the splash of liquid against wood. At first he thinks that Jaskier had drank too much — people always want to buy him drinks, after all, especially after a particularly good performance. 

Then he smells the blood.

It only takes a second, really. It's an overpowering scent, like a fatal wound. Immediately, he is on alert, and shoves the door open. Jaskier is alone, vomiting into a bucket. He doesn't look injured, which is good. 

He is, however, throwing up _blood_ , which Geralt thinks is decidedly _bad_.

"Jaskier, what the fuck?" He's at the bard's side in an instant, hand on his back, checking for wounds he hadn't seen. There are none. "What happened?"

Jaskier holds one finger up, telling Geralt to _wait_ , and heaves again.

"Water, please," he croaks, and Geralt rushes for the pitcher on the bedside table. Jaskier does not seem at all bothered by the bucket of blood that just came out of him. After rinsing out his mouth, and then drinking his water in little sips, as one does with an upset stomach, he says, "Fuck. It's been a good while since _that_ happened."

"What happened?" Geralt asks again — demands, this time.

"I'm fine," Jaskier says, which is not an answer.

Geralt looks at the bucket, and then back at him, letting that be his response.

The bard rolls his eyes. "Really, I'm fine, just— ugh, just drank something I shouldn't." 

Seriously? "By the looks of it, that 'something' was poison," Geralt says. If he's panicking, well, he has every reason to.

"It let itself out quickly enough, so no harm done, really."

"Jaskier," the witcher says, "you're vomiting _blood_."

"Yes?"

"Usually, that is a sign of dying."

Jaskier actually laughs, though he winces and brings a hand up to rub at his raw throat. "Or a sign of a terrible meal," he says. "Which, good news — I've found your werewolf."

"The werewolf poisoned you?" 

The bard rolls his eyes, already looking a lot better than he had when Geralt entered the room. "Would you forget about poison? There was no poison. Please keep up, witcher."

Obviously, Geralt is missing something important. "What aren't you telling me?" he asks, crossing his arms and giving Jaskier the sternest expression he can muster (which, well, he is very good at stern expressions, with a face like his).

Now the bard is fidgeting. "Well," he says cagily, like he does when he's about to go into a rambling, meandering story to avoid actually getting to the (usually uncomfortable) point, "you went out, you know, as you have been. And I played, as I have been. I got so _terribly_ bored, and you _did_ tell me to stay here — which I did, you'll notice. Only, well, I was getting some very, shall we say, flirtatious overtures from the barmaid. You know, the one with the lovely, pillowy arse? And I thought, well, it's been a little while since we've been in a town, you know, and I have _needs_ , Geralt."

"Jaskier," he says impatiently, "I didn't ask about your sex life. Get to the point."

Jaskier huffs and answers, "Well, it’s not _about_ sex, actually. It just so happens that that isn't the only need I have, you know."

Geralt gives him a _look_ , and for once it seems to work. Small blessings.

"I... may have drank her blood?" Before Geralt can even begin to formulate a response, the bard launches into the kind of tirade that is normally reserved for when he's panicking. "I don't— I don't hurt people, you understand. Just a teensy, tiny little trance, and an itty-bitty bite, and I'm good for a while! Really! It feels good, you know — for them, I mean, of course it feels good for me so that goes without saying. And the trance is just so that, well, you know how the human body is — if they move, they could get hurt, and that's not what I want. And besides, I'd rather not have people running about saying I drank their blood — bad for business, you know? So I make them forget that part afterwards. Don't want to let anyone know, usually — and it isn't that I don't trust you, of course! Even if you killed me, well, I'd be out of commission for a decade at most. And I wasn't like this when we met, I really am as old as I say I am, and I'd hoped that you knew already because I've just been sort of afraid of telling you because I really, really don't want you to be upset—!"

Geralt puts his hand over Jaskier's mouth, because it seems to be the only way to quiet him. For fuck's sake, he'd said the bard's name probably five times during his little tirade and the poor, panicked sod hadn't even heard him. Geralt doesn't like when he does this — when he rambles, his voice too high in pitch, his thoughts disconnected and scattered. Jaskier rarely lets anyone see him like this, doesn't like to present as anything other than "perfectly composed in speech, manner, and song", in his own words, so the witcher has only seen it a few times over the decades they've been acquainted. Still, it doesn't... he isn't happy about it. It's uncomfortable, he supposes, to think that he's made Jaskier so nervous. Panicked, even. And how long has the bard been worrying about telling him this?

There's a lot to piece together from his disjointed ramblings, and Geralt tries to catalogue these things quickly, lest he be quiet too long and worry the bard further. Firstly, Jaskier is a vampire. From what he said about only being 'out of commission' for a short time after being killed, Geralt surmises that he is a higher vampire. Apparently, he was turned sometime after they'd met, which... makes Geralt feel like a failure, honestly, he should have been able to protect him from this. After all, he knows better than most what it's like to be forced to change into something inhuman. It's a steep price for power and longevity. 

"I'm sorry," he says, because that's the first thing that needs addressed. "You shouldn't have to worry about whether or not you can tell me things."

Realising that Jaskier can't answer with a hand over his mouth, Geralt removes said hand, wiping it off absently on his trousers. 

"I... didn't want to make you upset," the bard says, not looking at Geralt. What a sight they must make — Jaskier sitting on the floor with his knees pulled up to his chest, Geralt kneeling in front of him, and a bucket of werewolf blood off to the side. It would be funny if this whole situation weren't so difficult. "You always tell me to stay away from monsters, and... I didn't. And now I _am_ one."

"You're not," Geralt says immediately, even though he knows from personal experience that the words are not enough to convince him. "And you couldn't have known. It's not your fault, I should have..." He finds that he simply can't continue. There are so many things he should have done.

"If it's not my fault, then it's not your fault either. You weren't even _there_."

"Exactly," he says. He swallows thickly, takes a calming breath through his nose. "I should have been there."

Jaskier laughs, a mirthless sound that doesn't do anything to make either of them feel better. "Geralt, you can't be with me all the time. Remember when you'd said my prick would get me killed one day? Unless you kept me in a chastity belt, I don't think you could have helped. There are just some problems even a witcher can't fix. I suppose I happen to be one of them."

Now, Geralt is growling. He can't help it — Jaskier has no right to talk about himself that way. "You are not a fucking problem." Jaskier actually scoffs at him. Before the bard can launch into whatever self-deprecating bullshit he’s obviously contemplating, Geralt continues. “You’re not. If you were a problem, I wouldn’t seek out your company. I wouldn’t save you from cuckolded husbands, or share rations with you, or invite you to Kaer Morhen for the winter, or pretend I don’t know when you’re spoiling Roach, or hope you’re safe when we’re not together.” And he really needs to stop talking before he says something he shouldn’t. It’s one thing to care for Jaskier as a friend, but an entirely different thing to admit the way he really feels. 

Geralt knows that he’s not the ideal partner, and that’s being _nice_ about it. He isn’t Jaskier’s type, isn’t young and sweet, doesn’t swoon over poetry or care about the latest fashions. He is dirty, and gruff, and old, and he’s damaged in so many ways. Jaskier doesn’t want him as anything more than a friend, and it’s for the best, because the bard deserves better anyway. Geralt just doesn’t want to deal with the rejection, doesn’t want Jaskier telling him what he already knows, turning big, blue eyes on him with a sad expression and an awkward, _I’m sorry, but_. He enjoys their friendship, their dynamic, wouldn’t dream of pushing for more, and he doesn’t want Jaskier to get the wrong idea. Telling the bard how he feels would just complicate things, cause problems where there needn’t be any.

He’s so used to suppressing his desires. Before Jaskier came along, he’d all but forgotten that he could want things that weren’t necessary for survival. This is just another thing that he, a witcher, cannot have, so it’s something he doesn’t allow himself to want. Sometimes it creeps up on him when he’s almost asleep, or in his dreams, or when he watches Jaskier perform. He just does the right thing, and pushes it down. It’s best for the both of them.

Usually he tries not to talk about feelings at all, not wanting to even chance opening those floodgates. He doesn’t want to be open, exposed. It’s one thing to say _good job on that fire_ and another to say _my life would be empty without you_. Now, though? He feels like it’s important to let Jaskier know, just a little bit, how important he really is. 

Even this little bit of honesty feels like too much, feels dangerous when Jaskier looks at him like that, like Geralt has just hung the sun in the fucking sky. He feels like he’s going to get burned, and there is no potion or sign to save him from _this_. Still, Jaskier deserves it, deserves to know just a fraction of how much he really means to Geralt. He _needs_ to know what he is worth.

“You… really mean all that?” Jaskier asks quietly, as though he’s afraid that speaking too loudly will shatter the moment like glass.

“I do,” Geralt says. 

Jaskier shakes his head, half-disbelieving. “Geralt, I’m a monster.”

“You’re not.”

“By definition, I am.” 

“You’re _not_ ,” he insists. “Stop calling yourself that.”

The bard actually _pouts_ at him. “You call yourself a monster, when you’re the farthest thing from one that a person could be.”

“You don’t hurt anyone,” says the witcher. “The real monsters are those who do.”

“Then you aren’t a monster either,” says Jaskier. Why the fuck does he sound so smug when he’s wrong?

“I’ve hurt people. I’ve hurt _you_.”

“Never on purpose, though, or without cause.” The bard takes Geralt’s hands in his, looking at him earnestly. Geralt finds himself captivated even before he continues to speak. “You’re noble and kind, Geralt. I’ve seen you refuse payment from a widow when you didn’t have the coin to eat and the fight was worth twice what she was offering. I’ve seen you comfort Ciri after her nightmares. I’ve seen you give everything you have to protect people who treat you like nothing for _decades_. You like children and animals even though they’re often stupidly afraid of you. And do I have to bring up how you saved my life after I forced myself into your company, how you all but offered yourself to Filavandrel in my place when you hadn’t yet learned my name? Do I need to write a ballad with every good deed I’ve ever seen you perform? It’s not an empty threat, you know, because now that I’m no longer human, I have the centuries it would take to catalogue them.”

The words are heartfelt and earnest and so, so kind, and Geralt takes a moment to tell his traitorous heart to shut the fuck up, to stop trying to see something that isn’t there. When he’s calm enough to answer, he says, “Fine, then neither of us are monsters.” 

The implication is clear: _I won’t say it if you don’t._ Geralt knows that it won’t be easy to _stop_ thinking of himself as a monster, but he also knows that Jaskier isn’t going to let this go. He can just imagine the petty bastard calling himself a monster every time Geralt does, just to be contrary, just to prove his point. He finds that he hates it, and it hasn’t even _happened_ yet. So, the best thing is to simply give in this time.

“Fine then,” says the bard. There’s a pause, and then, “You’re really… okay with this? With what I am?”

“You’ve been a bard longer than I’ve known you, so I don’t see why it should become more of a problem now,” says Geralt, because they’ve frankly gone too long without a bit of humour. 

Predictably, Jaskier smacks his arm. “You horse’s ass,” he says, “I mean that I’m a…”

He can’t say it, Geralt realises. Just how long has he _been_ a vampire, exactly, if he can’t even say it? 

“Jaskier,” he says in his gentlest tone, “how did it happen? When were you turned?”

The bard flinches, just a little. Not a fond memory, then. “I… it’s been a while,” he admits. 

“If you don’t want to talk about it, you don’t have to,” the witcher says, because he needs Jaskier to know that he is under no obligation to share.

“No, it’s fine. I mean, it isn’t, but I suppose… I need to tell someone, right? Not healthy to keep that all in. It’s just… a difficult memory, really,” Jaskier says.

“Take your time,” offers Geralt. After all, he definitely knows the feeling.

Biting his lip, Jaskier looks away, and then back at the witcher. “Do you think you would be willing to, you know, go take care of the werewolf first? I think I need time to, well, think.”

Geralt nods and stands up. “Probably smart to get it out of the way.”

Jaskier smiles thinly and says, with only a fraction of his usual mirth, “See, I can have good ideas.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They’re frustratingly dumb. I’m frustrated, and I wrote it. Enjoy!

Of course Jaskier remembers when he’d turned. He had tried to forget for so long, but he never could. The best he can do is just try to not dwell on it, to put it out of his mind as much as possible. It’s the closest he can come to truly forgetting, and he’ll take what he can get. After all, some stories are simply not worth telling. 

Still, he knows that he needs to actively remember, now, to try to make sense of it in a way that aids in retelling the gruesome tale. First, to set the scene: Geralt had just blamed him for every bad thing that ever happened, had told him to fuck off in no uncertain terms after twenty two years. Jaskier was not unused to this. Either he got sick of others, or they got sick of him. And maybe Geralt didn’t mean it, but… well, everyone else had. 

So, he’d given Geralt his one blessing. He’d fucked off, reasoning that if Geralt didn’t mean it then the witcher would find him, and if he did then he didn’t deserve to be stuck with Jaskier following him around and ruining his life. 

It had hurt, of course. Gods, had it hurt. Every time someone kicked him aside when they were done with him, it hurt, but this time it was so much worse. He didn’t know why it was so much harder now, when he should be used to it. Maybe it was because he’d spent so long with Geralt — he’d known him for more than half of his life by then, after all. Maybe he’d convinced himself that this time would be different, that Geralt was _permanent_ , that he wouldn’t get sick of him. Maybe it was because of his stupid feelings for the man. 

They say that absence makes the heart grow fonder, but he had hoped against hope that that wasn’t the case this time. He needed to love Geralt less, not more. For a while, he only sang when he needed coin to drink. He threw himself into bad habits and the beds of whoever would take him. The days blurred together and he tried to tell himself that it was fine, he didn’t care, he could deal with this. 

He would be alright, he just needed a little time.

Of course, it didn’t work out that way. He probably would have just drank and fucked himself into an early grave, if left to his own devices. Instead, he’d ended up like this.

He isn’t entirely sure why he’d been turned, even now. His sire must have seen something in him, but honestly, he hadn’t wanted to ask. He’d never learned the man’s name, either. Whoever he was, he’d stuck around long enough to teach Jaskier what he’d needed to know about his new life before he, like everyone else, fucked off forever.

This time, it wasn’t all that much of a disappointment. The man had put him through the worst physical pain of his life, had turned him into a monster, had taken his very humanity from him. Not having him around was a better gift than immortality, to be sure.

At least he’d had the decency to teach Jaskier how to be a vampire, after turning him into one. He’d learned a number of things that he’s glad he hadn’t had to figure out himself. For example, everyone says higher vampires don’t need to feed, that blood affects them like alcohol, but that’s not entirely true. Higher vampires do need to feed, but significantly less than other types of vampire. And it doesn’t make all of them drunk, but it does make them all feel _good_. For Jaskier, it works as some kind of powerful aphrodisiac, and his bite does the same to those he feeds from. (That, he did have to find out the hard way, but thankfully he only ever fed on people he was in bed with anyway.)

He’s never had to kill to keep himself fed, and it’s more likely than not that he never will. After all, the human body contains a _lot_ of blood, and his stomach can only hold so much. Things were different, sure, but it wasn’t unbearable, it was nothing he couldn’t handle. There had been a lot to adjust to, but he’d done it. And then, as if on cue, Geralt had come back into his life. 

He doesn’t want to dwell on it. Of course, he knows what he is now, and he knows how it happened, and he knows what happened before and after. Ignoring it won’t change anything. It’s just that things are good now. He can deal with what he is, and he and Geralt are closer than they had been before, and everything is actually okay. Being a vampire is kind of shit, but it could be worse, and now he can stay by Geralt’s side for far longer than he could have before. Honestly, he should be dead by now, but he isn’t and that’s what’s important.

So, though he is a storyteller, he doesn’t really know how to tell this one. It’s not a good story, and he knows that Geralt doesn’t want embellishments. He doesn’t want to be entertained, he wants _facts_ , but the facts are so difficult to swallow. Jaskier knows that if he tells Geralt the truth, he’s going to blame himself. If he lies, Geralt will know. He knows that Geralt has given him an out, and he should have fucking taken it, but he can’t stomach the thought of Geralt making up a worse story in his head. 

When the witcher comes back, Jaskier doesn’t ask about the werewolf. He can find out later whether Geralt had ended up killing or curing her, but right now, he’s got his own story to tell. 

In the end, this is what he ends up saying: It happened not long after they’d parted on less than friendly terms. It is _not_ Geralt’s fault, so he needs to stop making that face. The fact of the matter is, he’d had too much to drink and fallen into bed with a man who wasn’t a man at all. He never asked why the man had decided to turn him, never asked anything about him. He doesn’t even know the man’s name. The man had stayed long enough to teach him how to be _this_ , and Jaskier never saw him again after. Good riddance. And really, he cannot stress enough that it is not Geralt’s fault. After all, Geralt couldn’t tell that _he_ has been a… well, has been like this for decades now. How would he have been able to identify this stranger for what he was? So even if Geralt _had_ been around, Jaskier probably would have still fallen into bed with a, fuck, with a _vampire_. He knows he needs to say it, it’s just difficult. It’s not like he’s ever talked about it with anyone, except the bastard who’d turned him, and it was too fresh, too raw to confront back then. He’s been avoiding this type of conversation for a very long time. 

“I’m okay now,” he adds. “After all, I’ve had a good amount of time to come to terms with it. It was either accept it and move on, or be bitter and miserable, but either way I can’t just become human again. No, that ship has long since sailed, my friend. So, I am what I am, for better or worse. Really, it just means it’ll be that much harder to get rid of me, so if anything I feel sorry for _you_.”

Geralt gives him that pinched look that he gets when trying to talk about feelings and average men get when constipated. “I’m glad,” he says. “I don’t like that you had to deal with it, but… I’m glad you’ll stick around.”

It makes him feel warm to know that he means this much to Geralt, and even warmer that he’s willing to say it. 

“I am too,” he says. “Besides, I think only one of us can pull off the whole white hair thing, and it surely wouldn’t be me!” 

He is thankful that they both use humour as a coping mechanism. He’s had to deal with people who hate that sort of thing, who get uncomfortable or even offended when he tries to treat pain with laughter. 

Geralt does smile at his joke, but then he’s frowning again, and Jaskier knows that the conversation is not quite over yet. “How often do you need to feed?” he asks.

Jaskier sighs. “About once a month, though that’s really the bare minimum, and it depends on the quality. For example, a sickly person wouldn’t do much for me, but, say, a strong farmhand would make for a hearty meal.” He’s still not used to considering _people_ as _food_ , but as far as he’s concerned, that’s a good thing. 

Looking at the bucket of werewolf blood and then back to the bard, Geralt asks, “Are you going to need to feed again soon?”

Shit. He winces and says, “Probably. I don’t… feel up to it, really, tonight. Still feeling a bit sick from, well, _that_. Do you mind staying another night? I’ll pay for the room.”

“You don’t have to,” says the witcher. 

Jaskier waves him off. “Well, I’d prefer to, if it’s all the same.”

With an exaggerated sigh, Geralt agrees. 

Even though it’s a huge revelation, it doesn’t really change their relationship. Nothing changes between them except that sometimes, when he’s looking a little peaked, Geralt asks if he needs to go to a town soon. It’s a bit much, honestly, even though he knows it’s ridiculous to feel that way.

If Geralt offered Jaskier his blood, Jaskier would decline. He doesn’t want to have to explain the very close relationship that feeding and fucking share for him, and he doesn’t want Geralt to feel put upon. It’s just strange, he supposes, to think that Geralt cares enough to make sure he is fed. And, well, there’s this part of him that wishes Geralt _would_ offer his blood.

Of course he understands why he wouldn’t. Geralt doesn’t want to admit it, but Jaskier _is_ a monster. Just because Geralt won’t kill him, doesn’t mean he has to be entirely comfortable with it. They are friends, but everyone has their limits, and it’s perfectly reasonable for acknowledging his nature to be Geralt’s. He always looks so uncomfortable when he asks if Jaskier needs blood, and Jaskier himself never tries to bring it up — he doesn’t want to push, after all. A monster hunter traveling with a vampire is bound to be uncomfortable. No need to make it any worse.


	4. Chapter 4

Not much has changed between them, but at the same time, it feels like everything has changed. Now that Geralt knows what Jaskier is, the bard is more distant, closed off. Geralt feels guilty for having intruded on this very personal thing. 

He understands the bard’s discomfort, of course. Geralt doesn’t like thinking about the mutations he’d endured, and it makes sense that Jaskier wouldn’t like thinking about his own change either. He understands better than anyone that some memories are better off buried. 

Geralt always feels like an asshole when he brings it up, so he tries not to. He doesn’t need to pry any more than he already has, and Jaskier never talks about it on his own. Even someone who is always talking is bound to have subjects they don’t want to discuss. Jaskier looks so uncomfortable whenever Geralt says something about it.

He understands that, too. After all, Geralt is a witcher. Jaskier has seen him kill vampires before, and while he hopes the bard knows that Geralt would never hurt him, it makes sense that he would be wary. Geralt probably couldn’t permanently kill him if he tried, probably isn’t a real threat, but he supposes it’s the principle of the thing. He doesn’t fault the bard for not quite trusting him.

It’s part of why Geralt has never offered the other his blood. There are a number of reasons, of course. Firstly, the whole ‘prying into something Jaskier doesn’t want to talk about’ thing, with a heaping helping of ‘being a witcher’, and a pinch of ‘his blood is probably not very appealing’. Jaskier’s body had reacted _violently_ to the werewolf blood, so he probably wouldn’t be able to stomach Geralt’s mutant blood either — and even if he could, he probably wouldn’t want to try. 

If he ever asked, Geralt would agree in a heartbeat. He knows it’s ridiculous, but the possessive part of him doesn’t want Jaskier going to others for what he needs. The part of him that wants to claim the bard as _his_ , wants to take what isn’t his to take, can’t stand the thought of the bard drinking from others. He wants to take care of him, in every way that he can. 

It’s stupid, he knows. Stupid animal instincts, an unintended result of the Trials. In some ways, he is more beast than man — like in the way he growls and snarls and bares his teeth, or the way he is so affected by scent. He is territorial, struck with a desire to mark what little in this world is _his_. It isn’t usually a problem, but that part of him wants Jaskier to be his, wants to cover the bard in his scent so that everyone knows not to touch, wants to snarl and bite at anyone who gets too close.

He can’t do that, obviously. Jaskier is not his, not like that. He _knows_ that, but sometimes it’s hard to convince himself.

So, he pushes that beast inside him down, down, drowns it in ale and a good fight while Jaskier falls into strangers’ beds and takes sustenance and pleasure and everything that Geralt can’t give him. He hates every wall the bard has put up, but he understands why they are there. 

Some things are simply not his to take.

Not wanting has never been this hard. It’s never _hurt_ like this before. He is no stranger to pain, but this kind of pain is one that he is unused to, one that he isn’t equipped to deal with. After all, witchers are not supposed to have emotions. (It’s a fucking lie, of course — they do have emotions, do feel, but in a different, more primal way than humans. Part of it is the mutations, and part is the training, but no witcher has been truly emotionless since before the Cats changed their formula, long ago.) 

It’s easiest to view this as a penance. After all, how long had he kept his own walls up, pushed Jaskier away no matter how hard the other man had tried? Though it has been a long time since then, he still doesn’t feel like he’s properly atoned for it. It’s only fair to get a taste of his own medicine, of how he made Jaskier feel back then when the bard had been so young and tried so hard for a witcher who didn’t deserve the kindness wasted on him. 

So, Geralt doesn’t push, doesn’t pry. He doesn’t talk about it if he doesn’t have to, doesn’t acknowledge the rift that’s grown between them, the gaping chasm that he can’t seem to leap. It isn’t easy, and he fucking hates it, but it’s what he deserves. It’s the least he can do.

They survive like this for a few months. (Geralt can’t call it living — Jaskier was the one who’d taught him the difference, and of course without him Geralt is not living, only surviving.) Things haven’t been this tense between them in so long, decades at least, and Geralt tries not to let it put him on edge. It doesn’t work, but he is trying. 

It lasts until one particular night that they are, once again, in an inn. They’d only been able to get one room with one bed, but it doesn’t matter, because Jaskier will probably spend the night with someone else. Geralt tries very hard not to be bitter about it.

He spends some time in the bar before it becomes too much, not at all what he needs, and makes his way back up to their room. It takes longer than usual, but he manages to doze for a little while. 

It isn’t long, though, before he is woken up by the sound of a key turning in the lock, the door creaking open. Jaskier shuffles into the room, and Geralt sits up to — he doesn’t know. Greet him? Offer him the bed? Make an excuse and sleep in the stables with Roach? 

Whatever he is going to do, he never actually gets to decide, because Jaskier is crying.

Immediately Geralt is wide awake, on high alert. Jaskier, for all his emotions, does not cry easily. Geralt has always suspected that he simply has too many complex feelings for it, the opposite of himself, who does not have enough. Whatever the reason, Jaskier is not generally one for crying, so to see the tears streaking his face is frankly alarming.

“Are you hurt?” Geralt asks.

Jaskier laughs. It’s a sad sound that Geralt does not like. “No. Sorry for waking you.”

“Wasn’t sleeping much anyway,” he admits. “What happened?”

The bard shrugs. “Just… sad.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” he offers.

“Do you?”

Geralt frowns, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. Why would he have asked if he was unwilling? “If it will help,” he answers. 

Jaskier sighs and sits in the rickety wooden chair their room had come with. “I… I don’t like how this has come between us,” he says with some hesitation.

“What has?” he asks, because while he is pretty sure it’s the whole vampire thing, he doesn’t want to assume.

“The whole vampire thing,” Jaskier answers, as if reading his mind. Then, he veers in the opposite direction of Geralt’s thoughts, which is either proof that mind reading is not one of his vampiric powers, or that it is and he’s deliberately misleading the witcher. “I know it’s not something you want to talk about, but I just… I wish it didn’t have to be this big thing. I know I’m a vampire, but I’m still me. I might be a bloodsucking freak, but I… Fuck, I know you’re not totally comfortable with what I am now. I’m sorry, I just…”

“Jaskier,” he says, “you aren’t making any sense. Of course you’re the same person, and for fuck’s sake, don’t call yourself a freak.”

“You call yourself a freak.”

“I am. By definition,” he adds, as the bard had during their ‘monster’ argument months prior. “You’re normal for your kind. I’m a mutant. I’m not even normal for a witcher.”

“No, fuck off — if I’m not a freak, then neither are you.” 

Geralt huffs out a laugh at the absurdity of the situation, at the fact that they’re having the same conversation they had before, more or less. He then grows serious again, because this is a very serious conversation which apparently is long overdue. “I don’t think any of those things about you. You’re still just Jaskier to me.”

“Then why does everything feel so different?” The pleading tone the bard employs makes something twist unpleasantly in Geralt’s chest.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I thought you were uncomfortable. I don’t like talking about the changes I went through, so I figured you wouldn’t either.”

“I don’t,” he admits, “but it’s more than that.”

“I thought you wouldn’t want to talk about it _at all_ ,” Geralt stresses.

“Oh.”

“And with me being a witcher…”

“You’re an idiot,” Jaskier says. Then, with a little sigh, he adds, “But so am I. How could I have forgotten that _thing_ you do?”

“What thing?”

The bard gives him a gentle, fond smile that he knows he doesn’t deserve, but selfishly covets all the same. “You know, the whole, ‘I am a witcher above everything else and need to base my perception of everything — especially the thoughts, feelings, and opinions of others — on that fact, and furthermore I need to always assume the worst because of it’ thing.”

Geralt hums. “Usually those are less wordy, when you come up with them.”

“Yes, well,” sniffs the bard, “this one is very specific, you understand.”

“So,” says Geralt after a short, still-too-tense silence, “we both ignored it because we thought the other was uncomfortable?”

Jaskier actually laughs — thank fuck the tears have stopped, and it sounds like a real laugh this time rather than one of those sad ones — and says, “And so we pushed ourselves apart instead of talking about it like adults. Let’s not tell Ciri about this, yeah? She’ll be _so_ disappointed in us.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve been reading your comments and trying so hard to keep quiet. Finally I can say it: just because they’re communicating now, doesn’t mean they’re actually any good at it.
> 
> (also I did the fucking up numbers thing again, so. One more chapter than we thought)

It’s a relief to be back to normal, and especially to know that Geralt doesn’t actually hate him for what he is. Still, it sometimes feels like Geralt doesn’t entirely trust him. 

He’s no fool. He sees the way the witcher looks at him, sometimes, when he takes someone to bed. At first, he’d just assumed that the witcher was tired or didn’t want people around his things, so he simply started going to others’ beds instead of bringing them to his. The looks didn’t stop, though. 

Jaskier doesn’t want to dwell on it, because Gods know how poorly things went the last time he tried to read into Geralt’s strange behaviour. Still, there’s no ignoring the guilty way the witcher reacts when Jaskier catches him staring, the way he looks away like he’s a child who’d just been caught doing something he shouldn’t. 

Geralt had spent all that time and effort trying to make Jaskier believe that his, well, _condition_ isn’t an issue. Jaskier appreciates the effort, of course, and he’s trying to see himself the way Geralt claims to, trying to take the witcher at his word. 

The thing is, when Geralt looks at him like _that_ , and then looks away like he’s done something wrong when caught… well, it makes Jaskier wonder. How much of what Geralt has said is actually true, and how much was just sweet lies invented to make him feel better? 

Realistically, he knows that Geralt isn’t the type to do that, to lie just to make him feel better. Geralt is brutally honest, direct. He doesn’t waste words. Of course, that doesn’t mean it’s impossible. Jaskier knows that he still feels guilty about what happened on that mountain, and he knows about the witcher’s unfortunate propensity for blaming himself for every little fucking thing. Adding those two together, there’s no doubt in his mind that no matter what he says, Geralt blames himself for what Jaskier has become. He doesn’t like it, of course, but he knows he can’t just snap his fingers and make the witcher stop feeling that way.

For whatever reason — mostly guilt, he assumes, and perhaps a little pity — Geralt has a soft spot for him. It’s not entirely impossible that Geralt would try to spare his feelings, especially when he feels responsible for what happened. He probably considers it a sort of atonement. 

Jaskier knows that he needs to bring it up, but he doesn’t know how. He doesn’t know what to say that will keep Geralt from going on the defensive. And if he _is_ wrong, he doesn’t want Geralt to get upset, because it’s so obvious how much the witcher wants Jaskier to believe that he trusts him, doesn’t judge him for what he is.

And on a personal level he knows it’s true. Geralt knows him, knows that he wouldn’t want to hurt anyone. But on a professional level? Well, Geralt _is_ a witcher, has seen what a vampire can do when they lose control. It honestly makes sense for Geralt to be unconsciously waiting for the bard to snap, only to feel guilty when he realises he’s doing it. It makes far more sense than him lying for Jaskier’s comfort, at least.

In the end, he knows that he needs to just bring it up. They can’t have a repeat of their last misunderstanding, after all — they’d promised to communicate better, and Jaskier isn’t going to be the first to break it. 

This conversation occurs at a campsite. Jaskier is humming as he stokes the fire, Geralt is sharpening a dagger; the weather is mild and the moon is high in the sky and the whole scene feels very comfortable, so he figures now is as good a time as any to bring it up. 

“Geralt, dear?” he ventures, receiving a ‘hmm?’ in return. “Do you think we could talk about it? My, er, condition?”

The witcher puts down his blade and whetstone, turning to face Jaskier fully. The bard knows how difficult it usually is for Geralt to have conversations like this without having something else to distract him, so having his full attention feels almost overwhelming for just a moment. “Yeah,” says Geralt. “Everything alright?”

Jaskier, too, is prone to fidgeting with his hands when he is uncomfortable, but if Geralt can quell the urge then so can he. Maybe. “I think so,” he says. “I mean, physically, yes. It’s just… well, we agreed to stop assuming each other’s thoughts, remember?”

“What do you think I’ve been thinking?” the witcher asks warily.

The bard clears his throat. “Well… I’ve been trying not to think that you’re thinking anything, is the point. It’s only, I’ve seen the way you look at me sometimes, when I go to… take care of my needs, and how you look away after like you’ve done something you shouldn’t. And I just wanted to let you know that if it makes you uncomfortable — and I’m not assuming it does! But _if_ it does, well, that’s okay. I understand, really.”

Geralt is giving him that frown, the ‘why the fuck are these words coming out of your mouth’ frown. “I’m not uncomfortable because you drink blood, Jaskier.”

“I didn’t say you _were_ ,” he argues, even though he kind of definitely was implying it. “It’s just that, well, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, so if there’s anything I can do—”

“I get… anxious.”

“Anxious?” he asks. “I’m not going to hurt—”

“It’s not you,” Geralt says, crossing his arms. He is looking at the fire now, apparently having passed his threshold for eye contact for the time being. 

“Geralt, talk to me,” Jaskier pleads, quietly but earnestly. “I won’t be upset, whatever it is, you don’t need to worry about that.”

“It’s not that you’ll be upset,” says Geralt. “It’s just that it’s _stupid_.”

“Well,” says Jaskier, “if it makes you anxious then it bears talking about, my friend.”

There’s a silence, and Jaskier forces himself to allow it to stretch out, to give Geralt the time to think about what he wants to say (and to know that Jaskier isn’t going to give up on this). Finally, his patience bears fruit, and Geralt says, “I worry about _you_ getting hurt.”

“Oh,” murmurs the bard. “Actually, it is a little silly, yes. But it’s also… sweet. You don’t _need_ to worry about me, but I’m glad that you do.”

And he really means it. It’s still a little difficult to wrap his head around the idea that to Geralt, he’s more than just a vampire, that he isn’t some monster, some beast to be put down. Yes, Geralt is a good man, but he’s a good man who defines himself first and foremost as a witcher. 

Jaskier should have known that Geralt would be so... so sweet, really, there’s no better word for it — to worry about him simply because he is _Jaskier_ , to view him as _who_ he is over _what_ he is. He supposes that he just... he’s been a bit hard on _himself_ for what he’d become, so it’s really no wonder that he’s been projecting. 

And he knows how difficult it is for Geralt to talk about these sorts of things, to put his feelings to words (or words to his feelings). The thought that he’s willing to do so just for Jaskier’s sake, well, it honestly means a lot to him. Gods, Geralt is too easy to love. Or maybe it’s simply that his own heart is too quick to grasp at straws, to take every crumb of affection and shout, _see!? What could this be, if not love!_ The bard has to remind himself not to read too far into this. After all, it is more than enough to know how much Geralt truly cares.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shit’s heating up. Next chapter is the porn one.

So, Geralt hadn’t been entirely honest with Jaskier. Yes, he knows that they agreed to communicate more openly and often, but there are just some things he can’t say. And if he didn’t give an answer, Jaskier would assume that Geralt is still hung up on the whole vampire thing.

It’s ridiculous. Jaskier isn’t the only higher vampire he’s friends with, nor is he anything close to the most dangerous. How can Geralt judge him for this?

And really, he hadn’t _lied_ , he just hadn’t told the whole truth (Great, now he’s starting to sound like Jaskier. The bard is definitely rubbing off on him). He _does_ worry when Jaskier falls into a stranger’s bed. Part of it is that he’s just been conditioned to worry for Jaskier by this point, but also, well. He knows that the bard isn’t easy to kill by any means, but it doesn’t mean he can’t get hurt. And Geralt never wants to see him hurt.

That’s not the only thing, though. The fact of the matter is, he cares too much for Jaskier. He can’t stop the jealousy from rising up in his chest when he sees the bard disappear with someone else. No matter how much he tells himself that it’s absolutely none of his fucking business, Jaskier is sort of an adult-like person, he can make his own decisions, he can sleep with whomever he wants — it doesn’t quiet the beast inside him. It doesn’t stop the thought that Jaskier should be _his_ , even though he _knows_ that that isn’t true.

It isn’t worth dwelling on, and he knows that. It’s just that his heart doesn’t seem to be on the same page.

He’ll never begrudge Jaskier for taking care of his needs. Everything needs to eat, after all, and he doesn’t hurt anyone when he does it. (Sometimes, their rooms are adjacent, and he has to hear just how _unhurt_ the bard’s partners are. It’s fucking _miserable_ , but he endures. After all, what else can he do?) It’s just that, fuck, he can’t get over the ridiculous desire to be the one who helps him meet those needs. He ignores it as much as he can, but his stupid heart is a fucking traitor and takes every opportunity to remind him of the way that he feels.

Of course, worrying after the other man is a suitable outlet for those inconvenient feelings. Even before he became nigh-indestructible, the bard had had an appalling lack of self-preservation instinct, and if anything, his immortality — and Geralt’s knowledge of it — has only made that worse. 

“But Geralt,” he’ll whine when told to stay behind, “it’s not like it can _kill me_ , not really. I’d wager I’m even safer than you!”

“Be that as it may,” Geralt always answers with no small amount of impatience, “you can still be hurt, and I won’t risk it.”

“You’re so chivalrous,” the bard then answers sardonically, usually with a roll of his eyes to really drive the point across. 

It doesn’t always follow those exact words, but on a basic level, it’s always exactly the same conversation. 

Just because Jaskier can’t be killed by normal means, doesn’t mean Geralt is willing to risk putting him in unnecessary danger. A decade of recuperation will pass by the bard like a dream, but for Geralt, it will flow like molasses. It isn’t a lot of time for a vampire or a witcher, but it is still too much time to be alone with his thoughts, especially if he would be the reason that the bard is not there.

So Geralt refuses to budge, doesn’t let his knowledge of the bard’s true nature change the way that he treats— that he _protects_ him. Jaskier is one of the few things in his life worth protecting, after all.

That means treating the other man like he’s still human, still fragile. If anyone treated Geralt like that, he would be offended, and he knows that he’s running the risk of making the bard feel the same way. It’s fine, though — less of a risk than bringing him to a fight. 

Besides, if Jaskier is there, Geralt will have to keep some of his focus on not hitting him, which means less of his focus on hitting the monster of the week. The less he focuses on the fight, the more likely it is for him to be hurt — and does Jaskier really want to risk Geralt being hurt?

Of course, that is what ends up ultimately convincing Jaskier. It’s really, really endearing. There are so few people who care about him, who have _ever_ cared about him, and even amongst those few there are less who worry about whether Geralt will be hurt. After all, he is a witcher. He is no stranger to injury and pain. 

They could make a social club for people who sort of pass as human and don’t need protected but have someone worrying over them regardless.

 _Anyway_ , what’s important is that Jaskier is safe. That’s what has _always_ been important, and that isn’t going to change just because he isn’t human anymore. Geralt will keep him safe to the best of his ability. He _has_ to.

So, of course, it isn’t a monster that ends up felling the bard.

And really, what the fuck is wrong with bandits? Who sees a witcher and thinks, _Ah, yes, this will be the perfect person to ambush in the woods at night_? And what fucking idiot sees a witcher and a bard and thinks, _Clearly, I should get rid of the bard first_? 

At first, it’s not really a big deal. Geralt hears them, barks, “Get down!” at the bard and draws his sword just in time to deflect several arrows that make their way towards the both of them. Having lost the element of surprise, their sneak attack having failed, a number of Scoia’tael emerge from the trees with their swords drawn and rush at the two of them. 

All things considered, it’s going very well. Geralt is a witcher, after all — fighting a band of rogues is not the most difficult thing he’s had to do. And Jaskier, well, he is a higher vampire, and even if he weren't, Geralt has made sure that he has a weapon and knows how to use it.

So when he hears a cry that sounds like his bard, he sees red.

Things pass in a blur, and he doesn’t really remember what happened — one moment he’s surrounded by elves, and the next he’s surrounded by corpses. Rather than give his blade the usual care of wiping it off and sheathing it, he drops it and rushes to Jaskier’s side.

It’s about as bad as he’d thought. The bard is lying on the ground, curled up with his hands clutching his stomach, and there’s so much _blood_ spilling out, the wound too big and deep to really keep anything inside. If he were human, he wouldn’t have a fucking chance, but he’s not. Geralt uses his own large hands to help apply pressure, to try to cover the wound as much as he can.

“Jaskier,” he says urgently, “how can I help you?”

“You can’t,” says the bard. “Melitele’s tits, whoever said dying was easy needs a swift kick in the arse.”

“You’re not dying,” Geralt growls. 

“Not permanently, but I am going to die,” he says calmly, far too calmly for someone who’s discussing his own demise. “You’ll simply have to do without me for a few years.”

“No. There has to be something — what about blood?”

Jaskier purses his lips, and it strikes Geralt that he looks uncomfortable. 

“I don’t really have a way to get it, at the moment,” he says evasively.

Geralt shoots him a disbelieving look, glances around at all of the bodies, and then looks back at him pointedly. “Really? No blood anywhere?”

“What do you take me for,” the bard jokes weakly, “a necrophage? No, dead blood isn’t going to be enough for a wound like this — and that only rings more true the longer we argue about it. So, I’m sorry to say, you’ve already lost this one.”

No, he hasn’t. He isn’t willing to give this up. “Mine,” he offers. “Drink mine.”

“No,” Jaskier says, far too quickly. “Absolutely not, Geralt.”

“I know it’s not — it’s not what we do,” says the witcher, “and you probably won’t like the taste, or something, but is my blood really so repulsive that you’d rather die than drink it?” 

He admits that the thought hurts, and in more ways than one. He understands if Jaskier is disgusted by him, and wouldn’t do it under any normal circumstances, but to let himself _die_? 

“Geralt, no, it’s not that,” Jaskier says, and who else would look concerned for a witcher’s feelings while bleeding to death in a forest? “You’d be delicious. It’s just — what blood _does_ to me, it’s not… you wouldn’t want to deal with that.”

“I’d rather deal with anything than knowing I let you die,” Geralt argues back fiercely. He can handle himself, he’s a fucking witcher. 

“My bite will affect you the same way,” he warns. He still hasn’t said _what_ that effect is, but Geralt is still confident that he can deal with it. “I don’t want to make either of us… do things that we normally wouldn’t.”

“I’ll be fine,” he says. “Now fucking bite me, Jaskier.”


	7. Chapter 7

As much as he’d been willing to deal with the consequences, Geralt has simply refused to allow it. He can’t help but wonder if Geralt would be so confident in this terrible idea if he only knew what it would feel like, if he knew the kind of pleasure he’d be getting from it.

Of course, he doesn’t spend too much time wondering. Warm blood fills his mouth, slides down his throat, and it is fucking decadent. He was right — Geralt _is_ delicious. Usually the lust starts to take root around this point, but he supposes that his body has more important things to focus on. 

He isn't an idiot, he knows that this wouldn't be enough to kill him permanently, and he was fine with the concept of being comatose for a few years and waking up good as new. Yes, dying apparently hurts, but being dead can't be all that bad. He wouldn't have to feel the way that his body knits itself back together — which, for the record, he is not the biggest fan of. Ouch. 

Yes, he'd have to contend with certain inconveniences when he awoke — people thinking he was dead, perhaps having to change his name and pretend to be his own son; fashions and language changing, as they tend to do so quickly; definitely a stiff neck. It would be bearable, though, because the alternative is not something he knows how to deal with. 

Now that he's finished healing, good as new, Jaskier shudders, feeling Geralt's blood warm him inside like liquid fire. He's never tried drinking blood to avoid dying (thankfully he's never had to), so he hadn't known what to expect. He was hoping that his body would be too tired from healing to get properly worked up, that he wouldn't have to deal with the all-consuming lust that he usually experiences after a meal. Instead, almost dying apparently has only given him a bit more control over it. He's still hard as steel in his trousers, but he's aware of it, not trapped in a mindless haze of arousal like he usually is. 

That's why he always, _always_ makes sure that when he feeds, it's on a willing partner, on someone who'd already wanted to fuck him first. He could make a joke about drinking in bed, but the fact of the matter is it's the only way that it's safe, the only way he could live with himself. 

He can see it affecting the witcher, too. He hears the quickening of the other man's pulse, the hitch in his breath, sees the way his pupils widen until there is barely any gold left in those gorgeous feline eyes of his. They aren't touching anymore, thank the Gods — Jaskier wouldn't be able to hold himself back if they were, and he isn't sure that Geralt would do much better. 

At the very least, being a witcher apparently means that Geralt can resist the urge to an extent. Jaskier may be a higher vampire, with all the strength that comes with it, but he is still recovering from a fatal wound, and he doesn't think he'd be able to fight off someone with Geralt's strength.

Not that Geralt would force himself on him — no, Jaskier would never even _imply_ something like that. It's just that Geralt wouldn't be himself. He's essentially drugged. 

It makes it easier for him to fight the growing heat building in him, to know that Geralt isn't in his right mind. It would be wrong to do anything, to allow anything, with him in this state. Jaskier wants him, has wanted him so much for so long, and Geralt does not want Jaskier in that way. He isn't upset by it, it's just how things are. But to have him like this would be so much worse than not ever having him at all. To take something that isn't freely given, that isn't _for him_ — the thought makes him sick. 

"Are you alright?" the witcher asks, and Jaskier is surprised he even _can_ talk right now, but he supposes that that's just one more thing to admire about him.

"Fine," he says, a bit less verbose than he's used to. "All healed up, now."

And he knows that Geralt can smell emotions, that even if he were trying to hide it on his face his body would betray him, so it shouldn't be a surprise when Geralt says, "No, I mean... you're anxious."

"Just... reacting to it," he says. "Blood makes me..." He knows that it's cowardly, to blame his current predicament solely on the blood and not admit to how much he _wants_ , with or without it, but he also doesn't think he could possibly have that conversation, especially now. 

Something in Geralt's expression shifts, and if it wasn't taking all of his concentration to just sit still, he would put some more effort into figuring out exactly what it shifts to. He looks... guarded, maybe? 

"I won't force you," Geralt says, and Jaskier can't help but laugh.

"I know you won't," he says. "You would never." 

“Then what’s wrong?”

“Honestly?” He laughs a breathy sort of laugh and says, “I was a bit worried that _I’d_ try to take advantage of _you_.”

Geralt’s expression darkens, just a little. Jaskier, for his part, feels like an asshole for saying too much, coming too close to a confession, even in this fucked up sort of way — especially here and now, in this situation. “You wouldn’t do that,” says the witcher.

“I might have,” he says seriously. “It’s usually… more intense than this. I don’t usually have this control. It’s a wonder we’re still talking.”

“Hmm,” says Geralt. 

Gods, Jaskier doesn’t even want to look at him. He’s already hanging onto his sanity by a fucking thread right now, he can’t handle the possibility of seeing Geralt in the same position. And if he’s having an easier time of it than Jaskier is, well, the bard can’t handle the idea of seeing pity or disgust right now, either. 

“How long does it take to wear off?” Geralt finally asks.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I’ve never tried to ride it out before.”

“Fuck.” 

That single word has him shuddering for two very different reasons — one of which being _yes please_ and the other being, well, obviously Geralt is upset. It takes a few moments, but then a dawning sense of horror washes over the bard, who asks, “Geralt? Fuck, what if it _doesn’t_ wear off?”

“Everything wears off,” the witcher snaps. Then, he takes a deep breath, and more calmly says, “Sorry. Kind of on edge, here.”

“I think I know the feeling,” Jaskier quips. “Geralt—”

“Stop.” Another breath. “It’s… your voice. Saying my name. It’s not helping,” he admits.

Oh, shit. “Sorry,” Jaskier says sheepishly. He should have figured the whole _hypnotic vampire voice power_ thing would be difficult to control right now. 

“It’s fine,” the witcher says tersely, though it does not actually seem to be.

Another pause and then, “Ger— erm, my friend?” When the man in question hums out an answer, Jaskier tentatively offers, “There is no way to make this not awkward. I think we should… well, take this problem in hand, so to speak.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m not suggesting we touch each other,” Jaskier says quickly. “Just, well, ourselves.”

“Jaskier—” he starts, and wow, the way the witcher is growling out his name is not making it easy to use reason, but Jaskier pushes on. 

“We’ve shared whores, Geralt, this won’t be the most intimate situation we’ve found ourselves in. Besides, it will be over a lot quicker if we give in.” 

Honestly, he doesn’t know if he’s really in a position to be walking right now, but he’ll find a way if he has to. There’s no way he’s just going to ride this out, especially because it’s getting _worse_. He really, _really_ doesn’t want to end up doing something he’ll regret later.

“Fuck,” says Geralt. “It’s getting worse for you, too?”

“Ah, that was meant to stay in my head,” Jaskier says carefully, “but yes.”

“Okay,” the witcher says, and Jaskier makes the mistake of looking at him. His pupils are blown so wide they almost entirely eclipse the gold of his irises. His jaw is clenched from the effort of holding himself still. He’s gorgeous, a perfect picture of desire, and Jaskier has no idea how to deal with that.

“Okay?” he asks, dazed.

“Before it gets worse,” says Geralt, and Jaskier understands. 

“We should… move apart a bit more,” says the bard, though he really, really doesn’t want to. He wants to pin Geralt down and give him the time of his fucking life—

“Jaskier,” the witcher whines, actually _whines_ , even as he’s shuffling back so they’re a good few feet apart. 

“Sorry, sorry,” he breathes. “I keep saying things that are supposed to stay in my head.”

Geralt hesitates, then says, “I… don’t mind.”

“What?” Surely he’s misheard.

“Keep talking,” Geralt says — no, _demands_. So, apparently he had _not_ misheard. “I mean— if you want to.”

Jaskier doesn’t try to fight his growing arousal anymore. It feels like he’s going to die if he doesn’t get some kind of pressure on his cock, and then what would be the point of all of this? He grinds the heel of his hand against the front of his trousers. It’s good, but it’s not _enough_ , and he wastes no time pulling them down around his thighs and taking himself in hand. “Oh, fuck,” he groans, “my own hand has never felt so _good_.”

The witcher is touching himself too, though he keeps his trousers on. More’s the pity. Jaskier certainly would have loved the view — although, the rapidly shrinking rationality in him will admit that it’s probably for the best. 

Since he’d been asked to talk, he doesn’t pay any heed to the filthy litanies that fall from his lips. “Wish I could touch you. Fuck, the things I’d do to you, Geralt— I don’t know how I’ve kept my hands off of you for this long. You’re absolutely _gorgeous_. Fuck, ah, I’d love to taste more than just your blood — I’d absolutely devour you. I’d love to just— just lick and bite every gorgeous inch of that perfect chest. What Gods sculpted that, I wonder? How sensitive are your nipples? I’d find out. I’d play with them until you’re begging for more, oh, fuck,” he whines, thoughts grinding to a screeching halt when he sees the witcher take his free hand and start twisting at one of his own nipples through the rough fabric of his tunic. 

“Just like that,” he groans, “you’re absolutely gorgeous. How does it feel?

“Jaskier,” the witcher groans, sounding more breathless than Jaskier’s ever heard him. “Feels... don’t stop.”

“Never,” answers the bard. How could he? “Why would I ever want to, when it brings such sweet, perfect sounds from your lips? How could I deny you something that makes you feel so good?” 

It’s a little too close to endearments, too tender, so he backs off slightly and adds, “And I would definitely make you feel so, so good.” He licks his lips, tasting the metallic tang of Geralt’s delicious blood all over again, and stutters out a deep, desperate groan. “Want to taste your whole body. Lie you down on your stomach, massage all the aches out of you, feel you relax under my hands. Want to feel every inch of you, trail after my hands with my mouth, feel you twitch with the want of it. Make my way down, take handfuls of that perfect arse, make you think— but no, then I’d rub down your legs, all business. 

“You’d whine, just like that, oh. You wouldn’t be able to help it, too relaxed. I’d make my way back up your powerful thighs, want to be between them, want to feel them squeeze my head when I spread your cheeks and lick at your hole.”

The breathy, broken-off little, “Yes,” that Geralt chokes out at that is _very_ encouraging. 

“I’d run my tongue in broad strokes, nice and slow, from your hole to your bollocks and back again, over and over until you’re begging for more, it’s not enough, please. And then I’d pull your cheeks apart — or maybe I’d have you hold yourself open for me, would you like that? Holding yourself open for your bard to get his very well-trained tongue into your arse? I’d savour it first, of course, lick the puckered rim of it like the treat it is before pressing inside _just. So._

“Maybe I’d be able to make you come, just like that. I’d certainly try. Either way, we wouldn’t be done — Gods, no, I said I want to taste _all_ of you. I’d need to get my lips around your cock, let you fuck into my throat. I know it’s my money maker but _fuck_ , I can take it, vampires are sturdy.”

He doesn’t know why he’s saying all of these things, all the things he’s tried to keep to himself for years and years. It’s a dangerous game, but he can’t stop, not when it all feels so good. And Geralt looks — and sounds — like he’s fucking loving it. 

“I could fuck you,” Jaskier says, thrusting into his fist with wild abandon. “Take you hard and fast, or soft and slow — however you’d like. I’d work you open on my fingers just like I had with my tongue, make you beg for my cock. Or you could fuck me, bend me over and use my arse for your pleasure. I know you have to hold back but not with me. Fuck me hard, use me, pull my hair—”

“Jaskier,” Geralt groans like a prayer, and that’s it. With a hoarse shout, Jaskier is coming hard, and judging by the sound he makes Geralt is quick to follow. Jaskier can only hope that when he wakes the next morning, things won’t be suddenly awkward between them.


	8. Chapter 8

It’s anything but a usual morning. Geralt can tell from the moment he wakes, groggy and fuzzy as if he’s been drugged. His head feels like it’s full of cotton, and it takes a moment to remember what got him to this point.

Jaskier had nearly bled to death, had drank his blood, and then—

Fuck. 

How can he ever look the bard in the eye again? It would be one thing if they’d just quietly taken care of themselves, but the things Jaskier had said to him. Geralt knows that neither of them were in their right mind, and he doesn’t blame Jaskier at all. No, he blames himself. 

He shouldn’t have allowed himself to react the way he did. He shouldn’t have begged Jaskier to talk, to say all those sweet, filthy things that he didn’t — couldn’t mean. He’d taken advantage of the man, plain and simple. 

And while, no, he hadn’t touched Jaskier, hadn’t violated him physically, he’d still forced himself on the bard. The thing is, he hadn’t listened when Jaskier had said no. There was a reason the bard didn’t want his blood — he didn’t want Geralt in that way, didn’t want his body to force him to act on urges he didn’t normally have. And Geralt hadn’t listened. He forced Jaskier to drink his blood — yes, to save his life, but that doesn’t make it _right_.

Now, he doesn’t know what to do. Jaskier had said all of those things in the heat of the moment, and Geralt wants— he wants them to be true, but he wants to tell the bard that he understands that they weren’t. At the same time, he wants to run — surely, Jaskier will never want to see him again. 

No, that’s cowardly. Jaskier deserves to yell at him, to tell him how much he fucked up, to get it out of his system before telling Geralt to get out of his sight, that he never wants to see him again. Jaskier deserves the closure, and Geralt deserves the punishment.

Only, when he wakes up fully, Jaskier doesn’t look angry. Geralt spares half a moment to be surprised that the bard woke before him — it’s a rare occurrence, after all — before sinking back into his ugly spiral of guilt and shame.

“Morning,” Jaskier murmurs softly. 

“Morning,” Geralt rumbles in return.

Silence.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier says, right as Geralt says, “I shouldn’t have—”

They fall silent again.

“I’m sorry I… overstepped,” Jaskier says, and Geralt snorts.

“You didn’t,” he says. “I’m the one who… forced you.”

“Don’t make it sound like you’re some rapacious marauder and I’m a virgin maiden, Geralt,” Jaskier says. “I’m the one who suggested we wank off. I’m the one who didn’t tell you what happens when I…”

“I’m the one who didn’t listen when you said no,” Geralt shoots back. 

“You saved my life.”

“At what cost?” Geralt asks. They fall silent again, but Geralt notices the way Jaskier’s expression hardens, even though the bard won’t look at him. He notices the tears brimming in cornflower blue eyes. 

“I know it wouldn’t— wouldn’t stick, but… You’d rather I die than... than do what we did?” he asks, and the broken tone sounds wrong in his voice.

“Of course not,” Geralt answers fiercely. “But you… you said all of those things.”

Jaskier laughs, a bitter sound that matches his words. “I know that’s not what you want,” he says. “You don’t want me like that. It didn’t have to mean anything, Geralt.”

Geralt frowns. It feels like they’re having two different conversations, and he doesn’t know how to get them both on the same page. “Jaskier,” he says, as softly and gently as he can manage, “that isn’t what I meant.”

“Then what _did_ you mean?”

The witcher takes a moment, tries to think about what he’s going to say, but he isn’t having much luck. “I know it doesn’t have to mean anything,” he finally says. “You’re not under any obligation to me, just because you said pretty things when you were fucked up. I just… feel bad for making you say them. To me.”

The bard laughs again, but this time rather than bitter, it’s a shocked sound, more of a bark of surprise than actual laughter. “Geralt,” he says, “I don’t think we’re having the same conversation, here.”

“Neither do I,” the witcher admits. He doesn’t miss the irony of them having the same thoughts, but not when it really matters. 

“Let’s speak plainly, then,” Jaskier says, finally turning to look at him. His expression is guarded, his posture tense, and Geralt wants to do anything he can to fix it, to make him feel open and comfortable again. “I am aware that I am under no obligation to you. I want you to be aware that you are under no obligation to _me_. Blood makes me… loose. It doesn’t make me a liar. I meant every ploughing thing that I said to you last night, want all of that and more, so for fuck’s sake, stop acting like you forced yourself on me like some animal. If anyone took advantage, it was me. After all, you didn’t even know what would happen. And I’m sorry for it — for putting you through that.”

Geralt’s entire thought process screeches to a halt the second Jaskier said that he _meant it all_. There’s no way, no chance that he feels that way.

“You can’t have meant it,” he says warily. 

It’s the wrong thing to say. Jaskier turns away from him. “I know my feelings aren’t wanted,” he spits. “I just… you needed to know.”

“Jaskier,” he says, whispers the name like a prayer. “You really think I don’t feel the same?”

The bard whips back around to look at him sharply, disbelief painting his features. “I’m sorry?”

The moment of truth, Geralt thinks wryly. “I’ve been jealous,” he admits. “Whenever you go to someone else for what you need, I’m jealous. I want to provide for you. I want to _protect_ you. That’s the real reason I’ve been looking at you like I do when you go off with some stranger for the night. I hear you, sometimes, and I wish it was me you were saying those things to, me you were fucking into a wall, me you were taking your fill of.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier whispers, a strangled warning. “Don’t say things you don’t mean.”

“I’m not,” he insists.

“I… it’s more than…” Jaskier takes a deep breath and says. “I love you.”

“Fuck,” Geralt says, and he sees Jaskier’s face fall for a fraction of a second before he says, “I love you too, you idiot.”


	9. Epilogue

So, okay, the way they had gotten together isn’t the most romantic. It doesn’t quite make the cut for a ballad or sonnet — not one that will ever be performed, at any rate. 

Sometimes, during long winters in a crumbling keep, Jaskier will delight in regaling Geralt’s brothers with the story of their stupidity. If he makes himself sound a little more aware than he really was, well, what’s the harm? 

He is in love with Geralt of Rivia, and miraculously, he is loved in return. They wake together in the morning, fall into bed together at night, take their fill of one another in every way they can, whenever the situation allows. 

When he’d become a vampire, well, it had admittedly not been the easiest thing to deal with. He was so sure that he’d lost everything. Even more, he was sure that when Geralt found out, he’d never see the witcher again. Geralt had already cast him aside, after all — even if he hadn’t meant it then, surely he would double down once he found out what Jaskier had become. 

Instead, it had started him on the most important journey of his life. Was it easy? Fuck, no. Was it awkward? Undoubtedly. Was it worth it? 

Of course.

In moments like this, when he licks across Geralt’s skin, drawing gasps and groans from the man underneath him, tastes the copper tang of blood and the salt of sweat, Jaskier feels more alive than he ever had before his death. Skilled fingers play the witcher’s scarred, well-muscled body like the finest lute, drawing more beautiful sounds than any instrument could ever produce. 

They still fight, of course. Jaskier would gladly wager that he knows how to press every one of Geralt’s buttons. He thinks he might have even found some that Geralt himself hadn’t yet known about. Sometimes he provokes the witcher on purpose, when he knows Geralt is frustrated, prompts him into just the type of stress relief that he needs but never asks for on his own. The witcher doesn’t have to hold back anything, not with him. 

Vampires are exceptionally sturdy, after all.

So when Geralt grabs him by the throat and shoves him against a wall or a tree, well, he feels a little smug, knowing that he’s earned it. It had taken ages — and a _lot_ of provocation — for Geralt to stop treating him like some delicate little thing, to really rough him up every now and again. And when Geralt kisses him sweetly, covers as much of Jaskier’s skin as he can with soft kisses, takes him (or lets himself be taken) soft and slow on a plush bed or in a verdant meadow—

Well. Jaskier is open to any pleasures his witcher is willing to offer.

Time passes them by, seasons come and go, people flit in and out of their lives. They travel, they settle down, they travel again. Things change, and life marches on.

But one thing never changes: through it all, they will always have each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It didn’t seem right to leave this for tomorrow when it’s so short haha. As always, thank you for all the support. I had a lot of fun and I hope you did too!


End file.
